And a Big Red Bow
by Rhianwen
Summary: Some presents, you just can't wait to open. Unfortunately, sometimes the universe likes to get in the way. A belated tale of Valentine's Day chaos featuring two nice, normal, if slightly evil people and a big red bow. Slightly pre-ROD TV. Utter silliness.


And a Bright Red Bow

* * *

Summary: Some presents, you just can't wait to open. Unfortunately, sometimes neither can anyone else. A belated tale of Valentine's Day chaos featuring two nice, normal, if slightly evil people and a big red bow. Slightly pre-ROD TV. Utter silliness.

* * *

Note: I apologize deeply and fervently for this one. I really had to get it out of my system, though, before I could write anything else. :o)

* * *

It was a day like any other, but only to the men of the world. For it was Valentine's Day, and thus, while men in general were quite indifferent, most women were giddily excited to see what delightful surprises their significant others had in store for them.

At least, Wendy thought with both a resentful pout and a wistful sigh – resulting in quite a strange gesture indeed; sort of a wistful pout – those lucky women who _had_ significant others. Scratch that…those lucky women who had _time_ to begin to even _think _about _finding_ a significant other.

Perhaps she had simply been indoctrinated by the flower, candy, and jewellery commercials being run 30 hours a day on every television and radio station (even when they had to go double-time on occasion to facilitate this), as well as bus advertisements, billboards, and miserably embarrassed teenagers in sandwich boards (although where she would have found time to pay these any attention was anyone's guess).

Or perhaps the stress of her job had begun to turn her brain at last.

But whatever the reason, she tapped her foot absently against her desk chair, trying to force her attention back to something productive, and failing miserably when another wave of self-pity and loneliness crashed over her.

Of course, she knew perfectly well that there was no time for romance or any such silliness until their goals had been reached, at which point there would be no point. Or rather, at which time she would be too busy being someone else, and the person that she was now would be too busy not existing, to care.

Still, this was Valentine's Day, which had been known to work adversely upon logic and reason before.

And perhaps it was this, or perhaps it was a certain 'might as well die happy' mentality that prompted her, when Mr. Carpenter came around to say good morning, to utter those fatal words:

"Will you have time to drop by for a while this evening, Sir? I've got something special for you."

Of course, if she had expected him to happily accept, traces of curiosity clear in his expression to anyone who knew him well enough, she might not have asked, commercial-induced loneliness or no.

Particularly as she hadn't actually prepared anything 'special' for him.

And so, as soon as he had left her office, calling over his shoulder that he would need her for a few things later, she had hurried out into the hallway once he was out of sight, and dragged a young woman named Danielle, who was well-known for leaping from man to man like a lumberjack from tree to tree, into the room.

Wendy's reasoning was that Danielle would have a much better idea than she of what sort of 'special something' the typical male would appreciate – she might be awfully dense a lot of the time, and Mr. Carpenter might not like her much, but all those men _must_ see _something_ in her.

As she pointed Danielle to a chair, the tall, slim, leggy redhead grinned knowingly as she sat.

"Good morning, Wendy. Did you need something?"

"Er, yes," Wendy replied miserably. She felt a little hesitant to ask for advice, when she had followed Mr. Carpenter's lead and treated the girl with such coolness as of late. "So, let's suppose that a right idiot of a woman, in a fit of stupidity, asked a man over for the evening, promising him something special."

"Alright," Danielle agreed, her grin widening. "Let's suppose that."

"Now, let's suppose that this right idiot of a woman didn't actually _have_ something special planned."

"Say no more, Wendy," Danielle said briskly. "I think we've all been there at one time or another. Now, there are any number of routes you could take. Since the man in question is Mr. Carpenter—"

"No, it isn't! What makes you think that!"

"Oh, come on now," Danielle scoffed. "We all know you're mad about him. And besides, what other men do you ever see?"

"It's not him!"

"Of course it's not," Danielle said indulgently.

"It isn't! Although," the blonde added with an innocent expression that could have fooled only the most naïve and unobservant of people, "it's someone with taste a lot like his. Advice, then?"

"Like I was saying, since it's Mr. Carpenter—"

"But it's not!"

"Alright, fine; since the man in question just _looks_ and _acts_ incredibly _like_ Mr. Carpenter, you probably can't get by with buying him something. After all, what could you possibly get someone like that anything he wants that he doesn't already have?"

"I knew _that_," Wendy said, exasperated as she stood and began to pace. "When would I go buy it, anyway? During the generous lunch break that I'll probably spend in Mr. Carpenter's office?"

"Well, you could just steal something of his and give it to this mysterious man who is _not_ Mr. Carpenter," Danielle giggled.

"You know, stealing _is_ technically illegal," Wendy pointed out flatly. "Listen, if you don't have any other ideas—"

"Don't assume things! I haven't even gotten started!"

"That's what I'm afraid of," Wendy murmured, pinching the bridge of her nose, and then wincing at Danielle's piercing shout as another girl wandered past the door.

"Hannah! C'mere!" she shouted to the tiny brunette.

"Danielle, is this necessary?" Wendy asked as the other girl hurried in.

"Of course! I get most of my ideas from Hannah!"

"Why didn't I just stay in bed today?" the blonde whimpered as Hannah, who was receiving the story from Danielle, grinned widely at her.

"Ooh, what's his name?"

"What do you think?" Danielle snorted.

Hannah looked mildly confused.

"Well, I don't know," she admitted.

"I'll give you a hint," Danielle smirked. "It starts with 'Mister', and it ends with 'Carpenter'."

"Really!" Hannah squealed. "You're finally doing something!"

"No!" Wendy exclaimed, all the more annoyed at the fact that everyone currently in the room knew just how blatantly she was lying. "It's not him!"

"Oh, right," Danielle giggled. "It's just someone who looks, acts, and sounds exactly like him. And she needs our help. She told him that she had something special for him, but she didn't think of anything."

"Ooh, we've all been there," Hannah said, patting Wendy's hand sympathetically.

"I hate everything," she whimpered.

"You did tell her that buying him a gift probably wouldn't work, right?" the brunette asked Danielle, who nodded vigorously.

"Good." Then she turned back to Wendy. "You could cook him something wonderful!"

"No, I couldn't," Wendy countered immediately, reddening slightly and inspecting a spot on the carpet carefully.

"Why?" Danielle asked blankly.

"Do you remember the day I had to rush Junior to the hospital to have his stomach pumped?"

Both girls nodded, exchanging wary looks.

"That was from the first and last time I tried to cook anything more complex than a meatloaf. I _told_ him he didn't have to eat it when we poked at it and it bit off the end of the fork, but the poor, silly little thing didn't want to hurt my feelings, or something like that."

"R-right," Hannah said, forcing a laugh. "So, fixing a spectacular meal is out."

"Yes, unless one of you wants to come over and do it for me, and then sneak out the window and down the fire escape before he gets there."

"So, it's out, then. Don't worry," Danielle said soothingly. "There are plenty of other things you could do. Can you sing?"

"No."

"Play an instrument?"

"I think I still have a kazoo in a box somewhere."

"Paint?"

"Last time I went near paints, I was four. And they were finger-paints. Which ended up on the wall."

"Okay, okay. No artwork," Danielle said.

"Hold on, girls," Hannah said slowly, with a gleam in her eye that made Wendy whimper in fear. "I've got it!"

* * *

"What am I doing?" Wendy muttered to herself at approximately 6:55 that evening as she tied the last strategically-placed bow into place and cast a disgusted look in the mirror.

A length of velvety deep red ribbon, wrapped tightly several times around a slim frame, carefully placed to look intricate and random, but at the same time easily discarded, with matching bows placed over areas most necessarily covered. Matched with delicate, horridly impractical strappy black heeled sandals that added about five inches to her height. Carefully mussed short pale hair, darker lip colour and slightly heavier eye makeup than usual.

"I look ridiculous. Danielle and Hannah are clearly both mad." She glanced at the clock. "I've still got five minutes; I'm going to change and tell him that the surprise didn't turn out. Danielle and Hannah'll never know. They won't actually _ask_ him tomorrow if I went ahead and did it."

Just as she had reached for one end of the large bow hiding her "feminine charms" from the world at large (if the world happened to be rampaging through her apartment, in which case they would likely find themselves being quickly and gleefully shot by a blonde wearing ribbon, sandals, and either an angry glare or a slightly demonic smile), a shrill ring from the telephone struck upon nerves already wound up to the point of snapping, and she gave a startled shriek and leapt a foot in the air, clutching her dresser tightly as she landed to keep from landing in a decidedly undignified heap on the floor.

"Hello?" she said rather breathlessly into the receiver three rings later, after a sprint from her bedroom to the den which had nearly been the death of both these silly little shoes and her ankles.

"Is he there yet?" a vaguely familiar voice demanded.

"Hello, Danielle," Wendy greeted tiredly, wondering not for the first time if any of her co-workers actually _had_ lives. "No, he's not here yet. He said he'd be by at around seven."

"You know, you _could_ say thank-you for agreeing to look after Junior for the evening."

"Right," she sighed. "Thank-you, even though he'd probably be happier looking after himself."

"No need to thank me," Danielle scoffed.

"But didn't you just tell me to—"

"If it's a life-and-death matter like this, any decent woman would do the same!"

"Dressing up in ribbon to impress a man is a life-and-death matter?"

"So you've done what we told you?"

"Yes, I'm wearing the silly ribbon. Look, are you sure—"

"_Just_ the ribbon, right?"

"I thought I was supposed to wear these bloody ankle-shattering shoes with it," she said resentfully, conveniently leaving out her own silly, sentimental little addition of the simple silver chain and little amethyst pendant that he'd given her for her birthday last year. Hopefully, he wouldn't notice and think her absurd.

She glanced absently at the reflective surface of her desk, and caught a glimpse of the big red bow at her lower back. Well, _more_ absurd, she amended silently.

"You know what I mean," Danielle huffed on the other end of the line. "You're not wearing anything _under_ the ribbon, are you?"

"No," Wendy admitted miserably. "But I was just in the process of—"

"Good," Danielle said briskly. "Then you're all ready whenever he gets there!"

"If I don't decide to change first," Wendy murmured.

"What was that?" Danielle asked sharply.

"Nothing," Wendy replied innocently.

"Listen, Wendy, you had better not back out of this! Hannah and me spent all morning trying to come up with this plan—"

"I'm sure it was a big hardship for you do to something other than work all morning," the blonde murmured, rubbing her forehead wearily and ignoring the urge to correct the other girl's grammar.

"—and we went out and found that ribbon during lunch hour, so you have to do it now!"

"Alright, but if he fires me for 'unprofessional behaviour', I'm going to murder you both."

There was a stunned silence, during which Wendy realized exactly what she had just said, and winced.

"I knew it," Danielle said lightly. "It's Mr. Carpenter."

"If you tell anyone, I'll murder you for that, too."

"Alright, but like I've said, everyone already knows!"

"Danielle, just—"

At this point, a sharp, brisk knock at the door interrupted her angry tirade, and she froze, an unpleasant sensation something like the pit of one's stomach dropping clean out the bottom and landing in the apartment of the neighbour a floor below overtaking her.

"That's him."

"Good luck," Danielle sang cheerfully.

Wendy set the receiver back, and hurried to the door. Straightening the bows one last time, she turned the knob and pulled the door open…

…and gaped in horror at the adolescent male gaping back in completely undisguised shocked delight, the pizza in his hand dangerously close to sliding to the floor.

"Uh…you ordered a pizza?" he began lamely amid several vocal cracks.

"No, I didn't!" the miserable young woman squeaked, diving behind the door and peeking out from behind it.

"Are you sure?" he asked, trying to edge his way into the apartment. "Because I'm pretty sure the call said Apartment #53."

"Which this isn't," Wendy added through gritted teeth. "Look at the door."

The boy looked, and his expression became despondent.

"Oh, right. Sorry to bother you," he said, trying one last time to peek around the door.

"Not at all," she assured him quickly, slamming the door shut with a haste and force that drew a loud shout of pain from him as it collided with his face.

* * *

"How humiliating," she whimpered, dropping to the couch and burying her face in her hands – although carefully, to avoid mussing up the mascara. "Honestly, what are the odds of _that_?"

The universe was able to give no answer to this burning question, aside from another knock.

"Oh, God, I should have changed," she moaned in dismay, sliding a bit of the ribbon back into place and starting once again for the door.

Nevertheless, she pasted a smile of warm welcome on her face and swung the door open with a confidence that she decidedly did not feel.

"Hello, Sir, you—well, for starters, you aren't Mr. Carpenter," she finished, quite unaware that she was still speaking out loud as her gaze lit on a man in a mail delivery uniform, a large bouquet of flowers on one arm, and an expression of bewilderment mingled with slightly better disguised delight than that of the pizza boy.

"Uh, no; not the last time I checked," the man said with a weak grin. He peeked at the delivery slip. "Uh…Miss Earhart?"

"Y-yes, that's me," she replied from behind the safety of the door.

"Great. Just sign here, please."

Somehow, the delivery slip and the pen were snatched away from the man, a signature far messier than usual was scrawled quickly on the line, and the flowers were taken from the man's arm.

And then, blessedly, the door was closed, the flowers were lying on a side table next to the door, and she was collapsed back onto the couch. Then, as something occurred to her, she frowned.

"Who on earth is sending me flowers, anyway?"

She examined the little tag peeking out from the admittedly very nice bunch of flowers.

_Happy Valentine's Day, Wendy. Love, Mr. Carpenter._

"Oh, that was sweet of him," she reflected with a small smile, starting to the kitchen in search of a vase of some description. "Although, it would have been even sweeter if he hadn't had me phone the florist for him. I suppose I was so nervous about this silly ribbon fiasco that I'd forgotten."

Once a vase was procured and filled with water, the stems of the flowers trimmed, and the bouquet shoved into said vase and set on the coffee table, Wendy settled carefully back onto the couch, lamenting her own idiotic tendencies to…well, to _talk_, really. It seemed that every bit of this current situation stemmed from the fact that she had rashly spoken where she should have simply kept silent.

Well, perhaps this would be a lesson to her. Clearly, Fate was punishing her for dwelling too much on her silly, romantic feelings for her boss instead of on the vitally important work ahead of them once they could begin gathering the seven volumes of their future ruler if all went well, and this humiliation was only to be expected. Even if she'd only been conscious of Valentine's Day-induced depression and corresponding loneliness when she'd asked him over, it was likely a symptom of the deeper issue of her inability to banish silly, unprofessional thoughts.

And so, she would keep the ribbon on instead of giving into the urge to change quickly before he arrived – and _actually_ him this time, instead of perhaps a door-to-door salesman. Regardless of how embarrassing and painful his scornful, disgusted, disapproving response would be, she would go through with this damned stupid scheme to hammer the message into her head that this sort of thing was entirely inappropriate and never to be considered again.

Still, she lamented silently as another knock at the door caught her attention and she bolted from the sofa to answer it, Fate might have given her a _little _more time to prepare.

* * *

"Hello, Sir!" she greeted brightly. "Happy Valentine's – oh, God. Who is it this time, then?" she finished resignedly as she opened her eyes to be met by the startled gazes of two young men in neatly pressed suits and ties, clutching briefcases and pamphlets, their kind and benevolent smiles already beginning to wilt.

"We got here just in time," the shorter man muttered to the other man, before casting a slow, sorrowful smile at Wendy, who was beginning to consider the option of homicide to get this impromptu visit over with as quickly as possible. "Sister, it's clear to us that you have fallen into grievous sin. We urge you to turn from your lewd and depraved lifestyle and—"

"Thank-you, no," she cut in abruptly, shoving the door closed.

The other young man stuck out a foot.

"If you're too busy to talk at the moment, we understand completely. Your…lifestyle must keep you busy."

"It's not a lifestyle, as such," she sighed, giving the door another shove and inwardly smirking at the man's shout of pain as his ankle was compressed.

"Your job, then?" the shorter man guessed in a low voice, leaning in closer.

"No! Listen, I'm doing this for a date – sort of – and he'll be here any moment, so if you two don't mind—"

"Not at all," the taller man assured her hastily, withdrawing a small volume from his pocket and tucking a few leaflets inside. "We can always come back to talk another time. But we'll leave you with these, and maybe when we come back, we can discuss them."

"Right," Wendy grumbled as the Bible and the several pamphlets were pressed into her hand. "Because there's nothing quite like God's holy word sitting on your coffee table to keep that special someone in the right mood."

"Maybe your friend would like to discuss it, too," the taller man suggested very seriously.

"Yes, that strikes me as something he'd _love_ to do," Wendy agreed pleasantly. _Never mind his firm conviction that religion is a completely unnecessary and potentially harmful construction, and the human potential is all people ever need, and it's our failure to realize that that's caused all the trouble._

The two men nodded agreeably, smiled rather forced smiles, and hurried off down the hall, quite as glad to be rid of this odd, ribbon-cladwoman as she was of them.

"Right," Wendy said decidedly as she slammed the door shut with a force that made the walls tremble as though in nervousness at the wrath of woman who_ could_ be awfully scary when she wanted to, you know. "That's it. The pizza boy and the flower delivery boy were one thing – well, two things, actually – but when Mormons show up at my door, that's where I draw the line! There are probably only two Mormons in all of _Japan_, and yet they both show up at my door _right now_! It's a sign. If I stay in this silly ribbon, the next person to show up with be bloody Mr. Gentleman himself! It doesn't even matter that it's completely illogical and by all accounts completely impossible! It would still happen! A stack of books would mysteriously appear outside my door, and frown at me!"

The young woman had certainly not been inactive during this half-frantic monologue, but had been busily kicking off those damned sandals, storming to her office, and hunting up some scissors. Once a quick rummage through her desk drawer had produced a pair, she started to her room, giving the bows a fierce tug and unwinding the rest of the ribbon as quickly as possible. Free at last of the accursed thing, she brandished the scissors and allowed herself the enjoyment of a wicked smile.

And a scene of unnecessary destruction and carnage followed.

* * *

Ten minutes later, she dropped exhaustedly to the couch again. Then, as a gleam of red caught her eye against the subdued beige of her sweater that had no business being colourful, she frowned and brushed a few scraps of ribbon from her shoulder, all that had survived the wrath of the scissors.

"I hate Valentine's Day," she muttered, the words muffled against her hands. "Now what am I going to do about a 'something special' that I dragged him over here for? I suppose I can just say I burnt it, or it got lost in the mail. Of course, I'd better decide what 'it' _was_, just in case he asks."

She paced nervously, trying to decide between the cover story of the piles of absolutely wonderful desserts that she really shouldn't have attempted, or the cover story of the very special present that she would have to keep a secret, because there was no point in ruining the surprise now, when the package would hopefully arrive in a few days anyway.

But if she used the second, she would have to go buy him something perfect enough to justify inviting him over when neither of them really had time to spare for something like this.

Of course, an absolutely perfect present was a lot better justification for wasting his time this way than a lot of baking.

But then again, the baking was more specifically something that he would have to come over for, so—

At this point, her internal debate was cut short by another sharp rap at the door.

"If it's not him," Wendy murmured, hurrying to answer it, "I'm giving up and going to bed."

* * *

"I'm a little late," the tall, pale-haired man said as greeting as she swung the door open.

"Hello, Mr. Carpenter," she said, unable to put more than a trace of cheerfulness into her tone. "Happy Valentine's Day."

"Rough evening?" he asked, smiling a little bemusedly as she stepped aside to let him in, and shutting the door behind him.

"You could say that," she replied, taking his coat. "Been having a lot of unexpected visitors. Unfortunately, that meant I wasn't watching the kitchen, which means that the _other_ half of the 'something special' I promised you isn't going to happen, since it has an ugly tendency to burn when it's not watched very, very carefully. The first part got lost in the mail," she added aside.

"Ah," he said, hiding a smile as a scrap of something red and velvety lying on the floor caught his eye and a certain cryptic phrase earlier today from that idiotic Danielle girl began to make a bit more sense. "To be honest, I was rather hoping you were planning to do something daring and frivolous, like dress in a bright red bow and ask me to unwrap my present."

She froze in the act of hanging his coat up on the coat rack near the door, cheeks stained with a deep pink blush. Then she turned and smiled somewhere between shyly and impishly.

"Well, the wrapping isn't as nice, but if you'd like, the present is still available."

He paused for a moment, and thenstarted forward quickly, and if she hadn't known how utterly silly the mere idea was, she would have classified his expression as a grin.

"Very well," he said. "But next time, I'll expect proper packaging."

* * *

End Notes: Whoo! It's finished! And only…what? Two weeks after Valentine's Day. This is what happens when Rhianwen writes with a deadline.

Oh, and the bit about Mr. Carpenter having Wendy phone the florist herself is sort of dedicated to my boyfriend, who pointed out with much hilarity the fact that he (Mr. Carpenter, that is – not my boyfriend, who she probably would simply tell to shove it) seems to have Wendy do everything for him in ROD TV. It's kind of cute, really. :o)


End file.
